The Barrelhouse Burner
by Golden Lion Tamarin
Summary: After the 1919 fire that destroyed the New Orleans Opera House, musicians, performers, and stagehands found a new home in The Barrelhouse. A young Yankee writer travels to be apart of a Renaissance and is immersed in jazz, liquor, romance, and the affairs of a Ghost. E/C, C/R, Meg/OC.
1. Chapter 1

**Hi!**

I promised this new work ages ago and, after a tumultuous few months, I couldn't delay posting these first few chapters anymore. Admittedly, the first one is my least favorite of the three I have written at this moment. I've made some nontraditional choices, especially given a f(ph)andom as dedicated and attentive as POTO, so I hope you'll give the idea a chance. New Orleans! Jazz! Liquor! An OC male narrator!

Please, please, please, please review! Nothing gives me more joy, and constructive criticism is my favorite, especially writing an AU/period piece.

Thanks!

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I came to New Orleans against the wishes of my family, boldly and childishly spitting in the face of decorum and all that is proper in this world.

"Jazz and liquor are the downfall of the American family, William," My father would tell me.

"How could you ever have a proper life, who will you marry? Not one of those _creole_ creatures, certainly?" My step-mother squawked. She was the kind of woman whose once graceful hands had aged into talons, indicating enough experience in the world to pardon her lack of civility and decorum.

I was a Yale graduate from old, Massachusetts money. We were patriots, direct descendants of Samuel Adams by way of someone-or-other on my father's side. I had studied finance with the intention of joining the roaring bonds business in New York, but, as with all men, the War changed me. I found myself revolted by the thought of taking part in any trivial path or custom that should require me to wear a mask. I could not bring myself to spend even a fraction of my days resigned to living in anything other than full, exuberant pleasure. I had survived; and now I would deny myself nothing.

To further my reckless abandon, even in spite of the War, I was so young! I had enthusiasm in those days, and in the predictable fashion of all young men and women who have grown up with everything, except the feeling they had something to lose, I sought life with a fanatical carelessness.

With this juvenile sentiment intoxicating my every movement I swayed, heavy with baggage, off the streetcar just north of the French Quarter, towards a small French colonial cottage on the outskirts of the heart of the revolution.

The Renaissance of the Vieux Carré. For the purposes of the tale I tell here, it may also be noted as the driving force behind my attraction to New Orleans. The year was 1922 and in the peak of Prohibition, New Orleans had managed to stay wet and subsequently prosper. A great exodus had led artists to New York and Paris and Spain, but I could not be contented to simply follow my peers. I had to chart my own path and so I blazed a trail as far south as I could wander, to a land of dark bayou, French trade, and American ingenuity.

I struggled through the streets-paved but mangled with the roots of great, stubborn magnolia trees-with my luggage and began to feel the pangs of uncertainty. The streets signs were thick with rust and pointed at obtuse angles from the origins of roads thus making navigation impossible. Though I had often heard rumors of the great hospitality of the South, I nonetheless felt myself abandoned to the choke of stale heat and humidity. I had trudged from one end of the Quarter to the other and while the most south-western roads led to the Garden District, a home of large mansions that held an air of comfortable familiarity, as I moved further east I began to feel more and more like a foreigner.

"You'll wander into Sicilian territory if you're not careful," An icy, melodic voice filled me from a part of my heart- that part that one never recognizes as empty until it has finally been filled. I turned to face the voice, but found only illusions. For surely, it had to be an illusion. No man, no person, no thing stood before me.

"Who's there?" I asked. I had always been skilled at maintaining my composure, a quality innate in the privilege of having grown up a gentleman.

"Too close to the docks, and you'll find yourself in less-than-desireable company. I advise you move four blocks north. There's a small building… La Cinquième Cellier. You'll find it more… _appealing_ to your tastes, I believe."

Now, you must see, I fought in the Great War. I heard the shells exploding, day and night, in wake and sleep, causing men more fierce than me to tremble and weep with madness. Though I found strength in myself to not fall prey to insanity, I am not a particularly brave man; and yet with the voice of this Ghost guiding me, I felt no fear. It must have been a benevolent spirit, for otherwise I may have surely been lost through the night.

"La Cinquième… four blocks north…" I muttered to myself, committing the words to memory.

No voice cut through the swamp air in response and I no longer felt the air of cold mystery surround me.

I had no reason to trust whatever had spoken to me from the shadows. And yet, I also had no reason to doubt it. So I took my yellow luggage, now dirtied by even momentary contact with the streets, and I began my walk north. After only one block, I saw the building the voice had foretold. The letters on the electric light sign flickered as the only beacon on an otherwise silent street. It seemed I was the only person on the road until I saw a girl, an angelic waif in the night, pacing the doors outside.

"Excuse me, miss, are there vacancies?"

Through beautiful, inviting brown curls she looked at me with wide, wild eyes.

"Vac-vacancies… yes, I believe so," She stole her enchanting stare from me and muttered something to herself. As she picked fiercely at the skin around her nails the only word I could strain to hear from her was, "angel".

"An angel?" I asked, setting my suitcase on the pavement and moving closer towards her, only a step. With her mouth agape, and those great brown eyes staring again, she moved two further away from me.

"You've heard him, too?"

"I wouldn't call it an angel, miss, not necessarily. To be entirely candid, I'm not quite sure what-"

Abruptly, the door to the Cinquième opened to reveal an older woman, with eyebrows plucked so thin as to disappear entirely had a line of makeup not stretched them from the bridge of her nose to her hairline.

"Christine!" She hissed. "Where have you been?"

"I was lost… I was dream-walking again…"

"And who are you?" The woman with the face of a shrew scowled at me.

"He's with me!" The girl, Christine, interjected. "I think the Angel led him here… he's… there's vacancy?"

"One room, at the bottom of the stairs. Hurry in, hurry in."

With utter abandon, and logically no options before me, I grabbed my luggage and entered. If I had any sense, I would have thought the girl mad and the woman dangerous. But as I said; I had survived the war. There was nothing that could terrify me, no bloody trauma that could cripple me, and no ailment of the mind that could unhinge me.

If only I had known then what I know now.


	2. Chapter 2

I woke up the next morning in a room so bare that a prison would have been regal by compare, and felt a swell of longing for the soft, warm linens and amply-decorated spaces of my childhood home. Before I could truly fall prey to the solace of nostalgia, however, the sound of feminine chatter filled my ears and immediately filled me with a more carnal curiosity.

One voice in particular seemed to call to me and me alone, inviting me into an adventure I could not refuse. It was dulcet alto-tones, filled with theatrics and cynicism. I had to find her.

I dressed myself in my most modest silk shirt and Oxford bags, parted my ginger hair back and to the side with a slick of pomade, as was my custom, and inhaled deeply. Then, I opened the door as boldly as I could, only to immediately, frantically, slam it shut. You see, what I saw when I prepared to leave the comfort of my hovel was a flurry of womanly limbs, free and brazenly displayed, waiting outside my door; subsequently, I found myself paralyzed as the shrill squawking of my step-mother consumed my memory.

An audacious knock on my door left me no time to recoup from the attack.

"Mister… you've got to come out eventually, and inquiring minds want to know…" It was the wonderful, enticing voice I had heard previously. Despite the feeling that I had made a terrible mistake, I could not resist the siren's call. I opened the door.

Before me stood a young woman, a head shorter than me (the exact height a woman should be), with fierce blue eyes and a smile that engaged every ounce of my imagination.

"My name is Meg, I'm a dancer at the Barrelhouse. You've met my mother, she manages the boarding houses. I quite like cold gin and, sure, I've been called a bit of bearcat but that's only because I don't like to listen to a smooth talker flap his gums all day. But you… we've got some questions for you, mister."

I must have looked completely dumbfounded, awestruck even, because Meg's eyes narrowed suspiciously and her wonderful mouth turned downward in a curious frown.

"Hello? Anyone home in there?"

I finally caught my breath.

"Yes, I'm quite sorry miss, I find myself a bit flummoxed by-"

"Flummoxed? That's quite a nice word," She seemed to taste the syllables as she repeated them, but spent no more than a moment on its consideration. "I haven't any need for fancy words, though. What I need is for you to tell me about _the Ghost_."

I then noticed the posse of girls behind her who took in a sharp inhale of breath all at once. They were a mob of sequins and tassels all drowning in loose fabrics and brightly colored shawls. And their makeup! I had never seen so much rouge or lipstick in my life, but they wore it all against their alabaster skin like perfect, porcelain dolls.

"The Ghost…" I tried to gather my thoughts. "So then… it wasn't just a dream, afterall."

"You sound like a downright simpleton," Meg scowled again. With every cutting, injurious word I felt my hands grow more restless and my knees a little more weak.

"Miss… Miss…" I trailed off. What would I even call her?

"Giry. It's French, you know."

"Ah, well then," I smoothed the silk of my shirt as she looked me up and down, seeming to note every inch of me with a predatory curiosity. "Miss Giry, might I have some breakfast?"

She huffed and rolled her eyes.

"Of course, yes, excuse my manners…" Meg seemed as if she were ready to admit defeat, but the surrender in her body only lingered for a moment. "But then- _then_ you'll tell me about the Ghost."

"I don't think you should, Meg…" A soft, luxurious song filled the grimy, wooden halls. "It's not even real… and even if it _were_ , you wouldn't want to… _anger it._ "

Meg turned and raised a deliciously skeptical eyebrow that softened when her eyes fell on Christine.

"Oh Christine…" She cooed. "You used to like all the dark, voodoo stories same as me. I don't mean to frighten you."

Christine gave her a resigned shrug and smile before turning away without another word. She seemed to glide wordlessly, like a tragically beautiful angel. I only knew two things about her: The first being that I had never seen anything so utterly morose in my entire life. Second, she knew of an Angel, or a Ghost, same as I, but it was a secret. Being a man of honor, I knew that I could not breach this unspoken contract between her and I… heavens knows I could not stand myself if I brought even a moment more of misery to her mind. With this knowledge, I made a pact with myself to speak of the Ghost only as a creation of my own mind… after all, had I any evidence, apart from this piteous, beautiful dancer, that it was otherwise?

"Come! Breakfast!" Meg attached herself to me with a vice grip upon my forearm, dragging me abruptly towards a dining area with a handful of small, set round tables. The Cinquième was a quaint yet elegant building; it held the charm of an antique but the quiet majesty of something royal and Victorian. The walls in the dining room were a warm, canary yellow, the tables set with white, lace-fringed table cloths, and wooden, white-glossed chairs. A timid fire burned in a soft white, stone fireplace, a contrast to the dismal rain I had only just noticed outside. Even the rain in New Orleans was exotic; a warm, humid blanket that fell with a set rhythm, unlike the icy sheets that felt like pin-needles piercing skin.

"Chicory coffee and a few eggs?" Meg asked with a sudden hospitable gentleness and the slightest lopsided, pursed-lips smile.

"Sunny side up, if you could manage it," I offered meekly. I admit I found myself overwhelmed. How I had managed to find myself living in a boarding house of dancers after less than 24 hours in such a rambunctious city escaped me, and still I could not control the way my pulse raced every time her darling blue eyes met mine.

"Manage it? Of course, we're not barbarians. Where are you from anyway, mister…?" She called to me behind her as she disappeared into what I assumed was a small kitchen. I sat, uncomfortably rigid, at one of the tables and fidgeted with a small wildflower creeping from a charming porcelain vase which sat at the center of the table. I then moved to straighten my pant leg and checked the buttons of my shirt. I was fidgeting, could you believe it?

"William Scott, I'm a writer from Nahant, Massachusetts," I managed to eek out the words, dizzied and impressed that I could remember my own name. With a deep inhale, I relished the peace brought about by remembering that I could, in fact, breathe.

"Massachusetts?" Her face, framed by blonde curls, peered curiously around the corner at me. "What brought you down to New Orleans?"

"Writing!" I offered with feigned enthusiasm.

"Writing… have you written anything famous then, Mister Writer?" Her tone taunted me. I quite enjoyed it.

"Well, not exactly… not yet," I tilted my head, grasping my hands together tightly in the face of my embarrassment. "That's why I came here you see… new experiences and travel…"

"To write the great American novel?" She teased. I heard the sizzle of two eggs against a hot pan, and she appeared a moment later with a cup of chicory coffee. "Well, you can start by talking all about the great spice of life! Chicory coffee, you ever had it?"

"It's not available where I'm from…" I admitted with as charming a smile as I could manage.

"Well, it's a root, you see," She explained, setting a tea cup and saucer and an accompanying splash of milk before me. "We roast it, then add it to the coffee and _voila!_ As the French say!"

I took a sip and sputtered. It was the strongest coffee I had ever tasted, with a woody aftertaste that left my mouth feeling as though it were covered in a slick film.

"It's… quite strong," I managed with a gentle smile. Her lips pressed together in disapproval, and I realized I had offended her. "Please, don't mistake me, Miss Giry, I enjoy it, it's wonderful, I just hadn't known what to expect."

Meg seemed appeased by my humble supplication.

"Oh! The eggs!" She squeaked. It was the most darling sound I've ever heard. I sipped again from the chicory, finding this time that the bitterness only lasted a moment, and the delightful warmth of earth filled my bones luxuriously. When she appeared, I managed a genuine grin.

"So you _can_ smile!" Meg seemed immensely pleased with herself. "Well, William Scott, now that we've got that out of the way-" She peered around, to be sure that none of the other girls were eavesdropping. "You must tell me about the Ghost."

"Ah, but you see, I thought we weren't to speak of that after Christine-"

"Christine? Of course she wouldn't want it discussed, she's hiding something, and I am worried for her. She hardly sleeps anymore, can't you see those dark circles under her eyes?, and then mother finds her wandering the streets some nights. It's like she's under a spell!" Meg grasped my hand dramatically. "If you know something, perhaps we could save her."

As I said, I am the possessor of quite a formidable intuition. I knew, in this moment, that Meg would do anything to coax the secret of the Ghost from my lips. She was incorrigible, impossible to dissuade, and I deduced there was simply no help in making myself disagreeable.

"Well… if it will help her…" I began slowly, dashing the eggs with salt and pepper in a desperate attempt to avoid her hungry stare. "It wasn't much… just a voice, last night, in the streets… it told me not to wander too far east…"

"Into the Sicilian neighborhoods? Well, you probably would have been fine, but that's where quite a few of the bootleggers reside. You wouldn't want to get caught up in those affairs…"

"And then the voice, a man's voice, told me to come here, two blocks north of where I had stood."

"So you did, and then you met Christine, and mother…" She furrowed her brow in contemplation. "But why would the Ghost lead you here? Why would he have interacted with you at all, whatsoever? You see… he seems to hang around the Barrelhouse, managing its affairs and-"

"Pardon," I interjected, dabbing my mouth politely with a napkin. "You keep mentioning the Barrelhouse…"

"You haven't heard of it?" Meg asked, clearly perplexed by my apparent ignorance. "Well, you see… how do I explain it… really, if you see it you'll understand, it's not a speakeasy or a dance hall, not a jazz lounge, not a theater… it's really all of them combined!" She stumbled through the descriptions of what the Barrelhouse wasn't before finally settling on what it was with bright features and an exuberant sense of accomplishment. "I know, you'll come tonight!"

"Tonight?"

"Tonight!" Meg's eyes sparkled with an eager sense of adventure. "Oh, c'mon… unless you've got other plans?"

Again with her sardonic humor! I was utterly enchanted. You see, all the women I had previously been acquainted with prided themselves on propriety and modesty, showing a complete indifference to all things in an attempt to be as agreeable as possible to their husbands, or potential husbands. These girls were different, though. Their unscrupulous boldness was titillating and intoxicating, Meg's most of all. Every movement was theatrical, whimsical, immersing you in whatever tale she was weaving. She had piercing, inviting, blue eyes that demanded all of your attention. Heavens knows she had mine completely.

"I had quite hoped to tour the Quarter, you see I want to write a book about jazz…"

"Then you'll absolutely _have_ to come to the Barrelhouse. Spend the day with us, you can see it during rehearsals then again at night when the show begins!"

"Meg… I don't know if he should," Christine had wisped into the room noiselessly and placed a single delicate, ivory hand upon Meg's. And heavens, she was beautiful. She seemed Meg's opposite in every way. Her curls were a dark chocolate color, her doe eyes warm and brown, and her demeanor composed and gentle. I had never met, and doubt I ever shall meet, anything as wonderfully ethereal as her.

"Why ever not?" Meg's tone grew uncharacteristically soft as she turned her attention towards her. Christine wore a gentle, cream colored frock with a dropped waist that hid her silhouette modestly. It only served to make her look more divine.

"He shouldn't get involved… in any of this," Her voice was stern, not meek and timid or confused and sad, as before. "It's not appropriate. He shouldn't even stay here. What type of gentlemen stays at a dancers' boarding house?"

I began to speak in my own defense, but Meg's commanding presence overshadowed mine.

"He is a writer, Christine! Toulouse Lautrec stayed around dancers and made the most wonderful art! Wouldn't you like for our _dear_ William to have the chance to do the same?"

So, I deduced, Meg was educated. It seemed to follow her French origins, but it was worldliness nonetheless. Following her plea, Christine hesitated. I am sure she pondered my relationship with the Ghost. Whatever the catalyst was, it had plans for me and, though they were mysterious to us both, who were Christine and I to deny the supernatural?

"Well… I doubt Madame Giry will allow it…" Christine replied, conceding her position with endearing reluctance. She held a quiet stubbornness about her. "It is not our choice to make."

"Oh, nonsense!" The dramatic flair had returned to Meg's voice as her long, thin eyebrows raised. She turned to me as if providing long-sought advice between dear friends and continued, "Mother is stern but she won't refuse money in her pocket. We have to keep this place running somehow and the stipend from the Barrelhouse hardly satisfies our needs."

"It would if you didn't spend so much on makeup and frivolity," Christine replied. It was then that I noticed the gentle kiss of freckles about her nose and cheeks, not yet disguised by powder and rouge, and her thick eyebrows. She was beautiful but utterly unfashionable and plain in every sense. It seemed she wanted, above all else, to remain unextraordinary.

"Don't be unkind, Christine," Meg scowled. She turned towards me, physically dismissing Christine's reproach. "Ready your notebook and typewriter, William. The Barrelhouse will make an excellent muse!"

And with those words, the siren drew me ashore to a land that would completely consume me.


	3. Chapter 3

**Here we are, at the last of the three chapters I started a few months ago. Updates will be more sporadic from here on out, but we have some big introductions coming in the next few chapters, so stay with me!**

 **As always, reviews are amazing! Thank you to everyone who has taken an interest so far... I know it's a slow burn :)**

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"Only one block over, just catty-corner," Meg's voice was breathless as she led me on a brisk march through the streets, unfazed or unconcerned with my gaping mouth and wide eyes. It escaped her that these moments were my first introduction to New Orleans in the light of day; as "light" as it could be, I suppose, given that the skies were a solemn gray and the air damp and hot from rain. Not for the first time that day, nor for the last, I felt my limbs quake with eager, euphoric elation and my pulse race with anxiety. It was the feeling that I had simultaneously accomplished something fantastic and also made the most monumental mistake.

Buildings of cream, peony, cerulean, and chartreuse, with balconies adorned in ornate ironwork railings that twisted like vines against their facade, sprung from river stone streets, slick and shining from the morning's rain. All around me the air was thick with spice and full of music. At first, the song was a solo, the dull hum of a woman's chorus creeping out from a window above me. Then it was joined by the wail of a clarinet and as we moved closer to the next block the piecemeal band's song began coursing through my entire body. The thick, lazy stroll of a baseline seemed to power my steps, the clarinet echoed the chaotic awe that muddled my brain, and then I heard something not of this world: the gentle kiss of the higher keys of a piano, skipping, fluttering, and worming their melody into my heart, my mind, my very soul.

"That… that piano," I stopped in the street, now finding myself outside an entranceway consisting of three side-by-side double doors. Meg looked at me, very obviously miffed at my abrupt halt. "Can't you hear it?"

Her thin, long eyebrow raised in disdain and something I flatter myself to say might have even resembled worry.

"It's just a bit of rehearsal from inside... Hurry up! I'm already late and mother will be furious!" Her strong arms pulled me closer towards the doors, leading my body while my mind remained enchanted by a melody that faded with every second.

Despite how dark the day was outside, I still required a few moments for my eyes to adjust to the even darker hall before me. I could make out tables of various sizes set before a grand stage, and theater seating in floating balconies overhead. As my stare grew more sure, my eyes fell upon a vast sea of dark wood and crimson. Blood red velvet in the seats and back of chairs, scarlet table cloths, and magnificent theater curtains with the customary gold tassels framing the stage. A voice, stern, precise, and unyielding cut through the air.

"Meg Giry, are you not a dancer?"

I turned to face my guide expecting to see her magnificent mouth twisted into a pouting scowl but instead it was as if every hair, every muscle, every beautiful porcelain part of her body came to strict attention. Her eyes were wide.

"Damn," she muttered through grit teeth, causing me to cringe at the ghastly sound her voice made when it uttered such a word. Of course, such coarse language was not unfamiliar to me, especially not since the War, but the way her lovely features had to contort when she said such a word made it all too obvious why women ought not speak in such a fashion. Perhaps she didn't notice my reaction, more likely than not she simply did not care, but she left me behind to make her way towards the stage.

"Yes ma'am, I am," Meg replied hurriedly as she rushed towards the wings.

"Then _come rehearse,_ " came the voice's reply. On the stage, under spotlights, and surrounded by dancers in miniscule white leotards drowning in silver-beaded tassels and scintillating sequins, was a most formidable and austere creature. The woman, I presumed, was Meg's mother, the vaguely-familiar keeper of the Cinquieme and commander-in-chief of the forces of legs and hips that squirmed uneasily before me. Her eyes scarcely left Meg's rushing form before finding me. In that moment, I wished for nothing more than the ability to abruptly disappear.

" _You_ ," The woman barked at me. A tendril of her auburn hair lept disobediently from it's place in her well-coiffed style and shaded her left eye. "Downstage center, now!"

Who was I to deny her commands? Her demeanor was so stern that I ascertain no man, no creature, on earth could dismiss her without fear of repudiation. My limbs solemnly drew me towards the stage, up the scarlet-carpeted wood steps and across the dark-planked stage coated in chalk lines and scuffs from tap heels. I turned to face her, the left-half of my face exposed to blinding spotlights resembling a heavenly summons and winced under their glare. Her gaze held steady.

"You appear outside _my_ dormitories, presuming a place to stay," The woman's accent was thick and heavy with a drawl and a twang. It sounded to my untrained ear as if she were the very voice of the South. "Then you delay _my_ dancers from their rehearsal? Tell me all I need to know at once."

"Madame, my name is William Scott, from Massachusetts. I aim to be a writer. I apologize for the delay, Meg only sought to provide me with a warm meal before I began my daily adventures," I presented my most charming smile to her, but she seemed unappeased.

"William Scott you will pack your things and leave at once," The woman never blinked, never broke her stare, and scarcely seemed to even breathe. It was like speaking with stone. "Or you will agree to pay a monthly room and board fee of 40 dollars."

Here she hesitated and eyed me with a cynical humor.

"Unless that seems too costly for a man who wears his Sunday best in the rain to a jazz club _while it's closed._ "

"Not at all Madame. Though I admit it seems less than proper for me to remain in the company of so many unspoken for ladies… I will do what I can to solicit space elsewhere." The price choked in my gut, but she was _not_ the kind of creature with whom one would like to haggle.

"Of course you will, Mr. Scott," she replied already turning away to dismiss me. "And yet somehow I suspect you will find yourself in our company for quite some time…"

Her words left me feeling wholly unsettled, as if I were just another prop on a great stage to be used at someone else's command.

"But I've had quite enough of this, Mr. Scott. You'll leave the stage now and be of no further interruption, I presume."

Freed, at last! I exited the stage from the opposite direction, which led me directly towards the main bar. I realized in this moment that I had little-to-no plan through which to approach my New Orleans endeavors. I was here and I was sheltered, but to be quite candid, I hadn't the slightest inclination towards what sort of writing I was interested in. I had never been in love, not truly, certainly not enough to write a great Bohemian romance; I hadn't any strong political leanings, except that war is an abomination, but what a saturated, sullen genre that would be. Looking to busy myself as I stumbled my way through these ponderings, my hands followed the raised edge of the mahogany bar as I followed it around the corner; surely I could find something a bit more _illicit_ to ease these nerves. Instead, I fumbled and jumped to an uneasy attention as my feet found hollow boards just behind the corner of the bar. Upon regaining my composure, the air still stuck in my lungs and I felt horrendously uneasy, but I could not prevent my curious black loafers from tapping cautiously against the wood floors.

Before I could commence my investigation, a shriek, tearing away at my ears and my soul, horrible and pained, echoed through the empty hall. My eyes found the source in a flash and a brick fell into the pit of my stomach as I saw Meg's assertive, graceful figure deformed in utter agony.

I rushed towards her, every part of my being oscillating between genuine horror and feigned heroism. By the time I had made my way up the stage, she was surrounded by the glistening, cheap shimmer of sequins and tassels, clawed and grasped at by sharp fingernails and delicate hands, and I had to push my way through the mess of limbs to grasp her shoulders. I placed my right hand gently under her chin, directing her frantic, furtive glances towards me. The look in her eyes tore at me like the great claws of a horrible monster. I had hoped that my presence would satisfactorily assuage at least an ounce of her horror, but instead her face was continued to contort as tears fell in swift riverlets against the bridge of her sharp nose and down her plump, rosy cheeks.

"Buquet!" She cried, the full tones now stifled by her stuffed nose. "Hanging… dead!"

Two of the heretofore anonymous stagehands rushed down a flight of stairs behind the stage. We heard nothing, save the sound of Meg's sobs, until one of them returned, pale-faced despite the thick layer of dirt and grime upon his otherwise pleasant features.

"Dead," He whispered.

"The Phantom from the Opera!" Meg screeched. "He's here, in the Barrelhouse! The Ghost!"

Until now, the Ghost had been a pleasant dream, a quiet mystery lingering over my brief time in New Orleans. He had brought me into a home, no matter how fleeting it may be, but now I felt I had been dragged into the deepest catacombs of some bayou-horror. The Ghost had killed.

"I'll be only a moment," I said, in as gentle a voice as possible given the circumstances, and brushed a few tears from Meg's cheek before righting myself and making my way to the stairs. What possessed me to go _towards_ the horror, I could not say. I certainly had witnessed enough death in the War to never feel compelled to seek it again, and yet I could not resist the draw of terrific, grotesque mystery. I winded my way down another iron-framed spiral staircase. The first floor was a flurry of gimmicks and stage-settings, I deduced for the various shows. I continued down one more spiral to the third floor below the stage, yet there was no hanging corpse.

I felt a flash of frustration in thinking that, perhaps, I had been so naiive as to fall prey to the antics of the first Southern temptress to strut across my stage. But after a moment of absorbing my surroundings, I saw, across the shadowed, dusty floors, a heap of man, unmoving. I could feel the cold from where I stood. I knew he was dead.

Grimacing, I made my way back up the stairs to where Meg's mother stood, icy eyes boring into me.

"Well?" She asked haughtily. She seemed unfazed and I felt, for the briefest moment, that perhaps she implicitly understood something I did not.

"There's a body… it's dead," I said softly.

"Oh!" Meg cried before collapsing again into a fit of sobs. Christine had replaced me by Meg's side, and her eyes were frosted with horror and wonder.

"It must be… a Ghost," She whispered as she smoothed back the shortest pieces of Meg's hair, the fringe across her flawless forehead. "Nothing to fear, no reason to fret. We're safe, for now…"

As I bent down to grasp Meg's wrist with one hand, and gently hoist her upwards with an arm behind her back, I stole a momentary look of mutual understanding from Christine. Perhaps she did not mean for me to see it, or further to fathom the depths of it, but I now understood something very clearly. The Ghost was not entirely benevolent and Christine needed to be rescued.


	4. Chapter 4

**Hi! I want to apologize for the delay on this chapter. Since it is a continuation of the scene in the previous chapter, I really hoped to get it out sooner so that the momentum would still be there. Instead, I got the flu and was pretty much convinced I was dying all week.**

 **I'm going to reference a lot of jazz songs, some from the 1920s and some from later. I thought it might be nice to include some links to some versions on youtube (am I allowed to do that? I don't know. Doing it anyway. Sue me!) to help get the whole jazz-age vibe really going. Here's one I've referenced for this chapter!**

 **Please review, it means the world to me. This is such an active fandom and relative to other stories I follow, I don't get as many reviews. It can be discouraging. So if you have any comments, insights, constructive criticism, please let me know! Messages are good, too!**

 **Happy reading :)**

 **Songs:**

 **All the Things You Are-Jo Stafford** **/U_yzmsiQqFA** **/**

* * *

The police made a grand entrance to the Barrelhouse, chortling about something-or-other, until the stony faces of the theater-folk reminded them of the grim vignette they had entered. The two officers seemed diametrically juxtaposed; the younger was a blond man, likely around my age, with a Bohunk-look that seemed entirely too German to me. The older of the two, on the other hand, had a dark, nutmeg complexion and curious emerald eyes that smiled but held an aloof sort of sadness. As I watched him, I could see something chipping away at the fragile edges of his facade, a loss, a heartbreak, or a secret, that relentlessly held him captive. My silent observation of him did not escape his keen understanding though, and he approached me the moment he crossed the threshold of the double doors..

"Good morning, or rather, should I say, good afternoon, sir," His accent was thick with rolling rs and harsh consonants. The vowels in each word were over-enunciated and the meter with which he spoke felt alien to me. My expression must have matched the severity of my analysis, as he quickly added, "I will speak slowly. I understand my accent is difficult for Southerners to decipher."

"Oh, pardon, I'm not a Southerner, and I meant no offense or inconvenience," I offered with genuine humility. In a fluid movement, he withdrew a small pad and a golfer's pencil from his left pocket and his smiling eyes found mine.

"My name is Nadir Khan. I am a member of the New Orleans police and would be pleased to provide you with verification of my identity, should you wish it," I waved dismissively with my hand and he continued. "I should like to ask you a few questions, Mister…"

His voice trailed off but it only took a moment for me to add in, "Scott. William Scott."

"Wonderful, Mr. Scott," He smiled a closed-lip smile and scribbled my name on the pad. "You said you are not from the South?"

"No, sir, in fact I've only just arrived the previous evening. I have acquired temporary lodgings at La Cinquieme." Now, the right-side corner of his mouth turned up in a sly smirk.

"The dancers' house?" I felt peeved as he visibly struggled to contain a chuckle.

"The same," I replied coolly.

"Right…" Scribbling on the paper. "And what happened here today?"

"A rehearsal, as you can see," I struggled to hide the irritation in my voice. Did I really need to spell it out for him? "Ms. Giry went to the third level below the stage and came back aghast. They found a body, belonging to a Mr. Buquet, whom I had not the pleasure of meeting. As I said, Meg made the initial discovery, I merely went down after to verify the situation. It was as she said, Mr. Buquet was quite obviously deceased but there was one thing…"

Mr. Khan's entire body was visibly piqued with interest, and I continued slowly, revelling in the suspense.

"One thing?"

"Yes, you see… she said he was hanging, yet upon my arrival the rope had disappeared and Mr. Buquet appeared to have been dropped on the floor."

"Like a sack of flower?"

My mouth gaped.

"I… I suppose…"

"Very curious indeed, Mr. Scott. No… rope…" Mr. Khan scribbled again before peering straight in my soul with a deliberate, funereal, stare. "And are there any other details you feel might be pertinent to our inquiry? Anything you might have seen… or _heard_?"

At this, I grew anxious.

"Inquiry? Surely no inquiry is necessary, in the absence of foul play, that is? You suspect foul play?"

In an instant, the officer's jovial features returned and I felt immediately at ease.

"Of course not!" He slapped my shoulder as if we were bosom friends and let out a laugh. "It is simply my duty to evaluate all angles…"

"Well, you must be sure to ask about the Ghost. Some sort of Opera phantom?" I offered. "The staff here seem quite obsessed with the entire affair. I wouldn't put it past a criminal to engage in unseemly behavior and take advantage of the suspicious, idle chatter travelling through the ranks."

"Ah yes… the Opera Ghost," Mr. Khan readied his pencil against the paper again. "And what do _you_ know of the Ghost?"

My blood scalded my veins as my heart suddenly pounded ruthlessly against my lungs. What _did_ I know? Certainly nothing of value. What purpose could my anecdote serve? To be fair, I had no reason to believe that the voice from the previous night was at all involved with the Barrelhouse. On paper it would surely amount to nothing more than the ramblings of a wild-eyed lunatic; then my presence would be tantamount to the drunken musings of a voodoo-obsessed tourist! Surely not the reputation I wanted haunting me during my time in New Orleans.

"Only what I've heard… the musings of children, really," I replied dismissively with another wave of my hand and a subtle shrug. My hands immediately went into my pockets and curled into fists while I attempted to relax the muscles of my jaw.

"Of course! You only recently arrived, surely you couldn't know more than what you've said," Mr. Khan closed his book and tucked the golfer's pencil into it. "Truly a case of unfortunate timing for you, Mr. Scott. I do hope this horrible affair hasn't blemished your opinion of this great city too severely."

"Not at all, Mr. Khan, though I appreciate your concern. If you'll excuse me, however, I should like to speak briefly with the managers. I see they've just arrived. Those two gentlemen are the managers, correct?" I gestured towards two older gentlemen, about the age of my father, who had only just started the process of removing their derby hats and shaking the excess rainwater from their umbrellas.

"Quite correct," Mr. Khan nodded. "The new managers… two Frenchmen. The taller of the two is Monsieur Moncharmin, while the wider of the two is called Monsieur Firmin."

Mr. Khan seemed to melt into the shadows as he outstretched his arm in an invitation for me to take my leave, and I obliged. The sound of the French names across his lips was quite pleasant; a relief from the thick accent that plagued his English. Additionally, I had fond memories of France, the few that were not marred permanently by the War. As I approached the Frenchmen, however, my nostalgic ruminations were shattered.

"Gentlemen, pardon me," I offered gently as I approached. Mr. Moncharmin eyed me quickly from head-to-toe while making no attempts to hide his displeasure.

"Sir, we have only just arrived," Moncharmin huffed in a thick, sing-songy accent. "Rest assured we will speak with the authorities immediately, but surely-"

"You have me mistaken, sir," I replied congenially. I always felt a surge of pride, borne by my spiteful nature no doubt, at responding to disdain in the most saccharine fashion. "My name is William Scott. I suppose you could say I'm to be a regular patron of this fine establishment."

Mr. Firmin's short, stout frame peered around Moncharmin curiously.

"A regular patron? How interesting. I expect, then, that you'll be asking for our nicest tables? Our finest staff? To what other accommodations would a "regular patron" be entitled?"

My blood boiled. How typical of Frenchmen to condescend! Thank goodness, for them, that I was a gentlemen, otherwise I undoubtedly would have engaged in unpleasantries.

"That's not at all my intention, sir," I replied dryly, straightening the sleeves of my shirt before continuing. "You see, I've only just witnessed a horrible affair at your venue. I only sought to place myself at your service, as I will be available, in assisting however you may need. I've already provided my name to the police and made the acquaintance of Madame and Meg Giry-"

"Ah! A patron who has "made the acquaintance" of a dancer girl!" Moncharmin let out a hearty laugh. The left corner of my lips twitched.

"Not in that sense, _monsieur_ ," I added viciously. "Let me make this brief, and I have already told this to the police: I suspect some sort of hijinks in your establishment. You see, there was no rope to be found on the third floor below the stage and so-"

"Monsieurs!" Madame Giry interrupted, her complete mutilation of the French syllables bombarded our ears and I saw the managers cringe. "Miss Carlotta has just sent word that she is ill and will be unable to perform tonight."

A series of disgruntled sighs and other various shows of discontent exuded from the men, and Firmin's rotund body scurried across the floor, between tables, towards the bottom of the stage where Madame Giry stood.

"A full house! We have a full house tonight, every table is booked, every seat accounted for! Surely there is someone-"

"Christine Daae could sing, sir!" Meg, still dabbing at the stray lines of eye makeup that ran down her face, interjected.

"Daae?" Moncharmin raised a skeptical eyebrow. "I'm not familiar with American artists…"

"It's a Swedish name, sir," Christine corrected as a stubborn, small pout formed along the lines of her typically soft lips.

"She has been well taught," Madame Giry added.

"By whom?" Firmin asked, still ill at ease.

"I don't know his name, sir," Christine squeaked. "Someone from the Opera… but I don't know…"

"All the same… as we are desperate…" Moncharmin grumbled. "You may sing for us."

I nearly uttered a growl as he deigned, with the same supercilious tone, to allow Christine before him on the stage. As she made her way, dressed in naught but stockings and leotard, with her brown curls pinned away from her face, I felt some of my anger subside.

Without accompaniment, the words, low and visceral, poured out of her. She was no longer human, but a vessel of sound and experience and emotion. My hand reached out and grasped, white-knuckled, the backs of one of the dark, ebony-colored wood chairs as the words slowly wormed their way into my mind.

 _"You are the promised kiss of spring time,_

 _That makes the lonely winter seem long,_

 _You are the breathless hush of evening_

 _That trembles on the brink of a lovely song."_

The vowels were so full and round that I felt myself lost in them as nostalgia bloomed, each syllable peeling open another petal, complete in my soul. The next phrase seemed to emanate from deep within her, and Christine stepped forward on the stage as her eyes strained to see into the darkness.

 _"You are the angel glow that lights the star,_

 _The dearest things that I know are what you are,"_

Her searching gaze grew more sure and her long, strong dancer's arms wrapped around her, softly caressing her as if they belonged to someone else. I watched, utterly entranced, as the sullen, frightened creature I knew disappeared. Her head fell back, chocolate curls cascading behind her, leaving the pristine skin of her neck bare. I could see the muscles there tense and relax as she sang the last lines.

 _"Someday my happy arms will hold you_

 _And someday I'll know that moment divine,_

 _When all the things you are-_

 _Are mine."_

Christine stood frozen on the stage, ensconced in her own embrace, with her mouth still slightly agape as she waited for the last notes and breath to escape her. I gasped in a frantic breath and released my vice grip on the chair beside me and as I looked around I saw each of us, Officer Khan, the Managers, and the dancers, all emerge from Christine's spell with wide, fresh eyes.

In the depths of my chest, my heart beat unsteadily, and I knew in that moment I found myself on the precipice of something profound. Having heard her sing, I had been reborn; in a smokey, dark jazz club, I felt myself changed.

Behind me and above me, the sound of one echoing clap filled the suddenly cavernous hall. I glanced upwards searching for the sound from one of the boxes. For the most fleeting moment, I would have sworn before God and a jury that I had seen the faintest silhouette of a thin frame with tall shoulders resting below two gold, piercing eyes. But after a breath to steady myself, I looked up again and the darkness seemed only an endless void, a canvas on which my mind could paint any mystery or horror it should choose. Still, I heard the clapping continue so I about-faced to the opposing box to see a handsome young man, with a thin moustache, strong, blond eyebrows, and smiling eyes staring adoringly down at Christine.

"Monsieur!" Moncharmin called up to him. "We had hoped to introduce you tonight but since you are here-"

The young man cared not for his words and left the box before Moncharmin could finish.

I looked back towards the stage, my eyes following the sound of Meg's gleeful giggle. She was a hummingbird aflutter around Christine, rearranging her hair, cupping her face, and cooing words of encouragement. I made my way closer to the managers where Madame Giry stood huddled with them in hushed conversation.

"Will she sing?" Giry asked. The words seemed more command than question.

"It was absolutely enthralling…" Firmin pondered.

"Yes but… she's very young and well… Carlotta held a more _adult_ audience in some respects," Moncharmin replied. "We must preserve the nature of the show."

"Gentlemen, she must sing," the young man from the box appeared at the foot of the red-carpeted stairs to the right of the hall. "If this is the sort of establishment we would be investing in, my brother and I… well she must."

"Monsieur Vicomte," Firmin responded with a shallow bow. "certainly she has an appeal but…"

"An appeal?" the Vicomte asked. "We were all spellbound. Now certainly we must approach this as a business, gentlemen, and though we may lose some of our more licentious audience should she become our star, I think the Barrelhouse may gain more respectability. This woman could be the face of French influence in jazz."

There was something radiant about him. His confidence was shameless but there was something endearing about his manner that kept him from arrogance. His build was youthful and strong, his jawline sharp, and his smile golden like his skin and his perfectly slicked-back blonde hair. I found myself simultaneously irritated and smitten.

"One change at a time, monsieur," Moncharmin replied cautiously.

"Perhaps a good, Southern compromise will suit us, then," Madame Giry finally said. It was time we hear the true manager's verdict. "Christine will sing some of Carlotta's numbers center stage. The more "adult" numbers, as you called them, we will feature the dancers. Surely _that_ will satisfy your _needs_."

She made no effort to hide her contempt and I couldn't stop the corners of my mouth from rising slightly.

"Yes, yes… that will do." Moncharmin agreed at last. Madame Giry nodded before making her way to the stage where Christine had been swarmed by her peers, giddy and drooling with jealousy and adoration, and the Vicomte turned to me.

"And who are you?" His tone was less than inviting but his voice was like water over river rocks, perfect and smooth even with his French accent.

"Oh he's no one," Firmin dismissed me and my mind hurled vicious insults against him in rapid succession. "Just a tenant at the dancers house."

"A tenant?" the Vicomte's eyes sparkled. "Then you know her, where I can find her?"

"My name is William Scott and I'm a _writer_ ," I corrected. "And perhaps I could make an introduction Mister Vicomte."

"My name is Raoul de Chagny," he held his hand out and I embraced it with my own in a firm, enthusiastic handshake. "A proposition, Mr. Scott. Be my guest tonight. I ask only that you introduce me to our new star in exchange."

Raoul was completely infatuated. I had seen that look on a boy's face before, full of hope and curious delight, even held it myself once or twice, and knew I could not stamp out such wonder without just cause.

"It would be my pleasure, I think we-"

"Gentlemen!" Madame Giry barked from the stage. "You have just up-ended our entire performance. Could you not do us the honor of _leaving_ so we could clean it up before tonight?"

I did not hesitate to turn on my heel, confident that Raoul and the Managers should follow, had they any survival instincts at all. A few feet in front of me, Officer Khan and his counter part were already slinking out the leftmost set of double doors and I couldn't help but wonder about Khan's little notebook and the scribbles it held.

A hand wrapped around my arm.

"Tonight then? Meet me here at seven. Then after the performance you'll take me to Christine?"

I looked at him quizzically. Raoul said her name so casually, as if the years had made the syllables of her name comfortable on his tongue.

"You already know her?"

"Perhaps… but she wouldn't remember…" he seemed flustered.

"Alright, seven it is," I agreed. My first night in New Orleans would be spent with two insufferable managers and a Vicomte at a jazz club. Surely it would be a night to remember.


End file.
